The Scar (24 page)

They returned home in deep darkness. Egert held Fox’s sleeve so as not to lose his way. They were both respectably drunk; stumbling into their room, first of all Fox demanded that the flame be lit; then he let the clasp of his cloak fall to the floor, sat on his bed, and wearily announced that his life was as dry and rough as a dog’s tongue. Sympathizing with his friend and desiring to do him a service, Egert went down on all fours to search for the missing clasp. Clenching a candle in his teeth and peering under his own bed, he noticed a dusty object looming right by the wall.

“Hey,” Fox asked drunkenly, “did you decide to sleep under the bed?”

Egert straightened up, holding a book in his hands.

“Well, that’s good,” Fox acceded weakly, untying his shoe. “That’s probably the lad’s, the one who lived here before. Did you find the clasp?”

Egert placed the candle on the table, put his discovery next to it, wiped a coat of dust off it with his palm, and opened it, trying to spread out the pages, some of which were stuck together.

The book was a history of battles and the commanders who fought them. Turning a few pages, Egert came across a firm paper square. One side of it was empty, with only a single ink spot in the corner, but the other side …

Egert stared at the drawing for a few seconds, suddenly feeling sober, as if he had been tossed into an ice-cold lake. Toria gazed up at him from the drawing.

It was a striking likeness; the artist, slightly awkward and inexperienced, but certainly talented, had captured the most important thing: He had managed to impart the expression of her eyes, that tranquil, slightly detached amiability with which Toria had looked at Egert the first time they met. The beauty marks on her neck were drawn with impeccable accuracy, as was the daring curve of her eyelashes. Her soft lips seemed just about to break into a smile.

Fox hiccuped and dropped his other shoe on the floor. “What’s that?”

Tearing his gaze away with effort, Egert turned the drawing over, covering it with his palm so that it would be his secret, so that Fox would not know. A disturbing thought came to him, and he turned back to the book. He opened the first page, searching for a sign of the owner.

There were only two letters:
D.D.

Egert felt suddenly feverish. “Gaetan,” he asked in a whisper, trying to speak calmly, “who lived here before me, Gaetan?”

Fox was silent for a second. He leisurely stretched himself out on his bed. “As far as I know, only one boy lived here before you. He was a good lad; Dinar was his name. In truth, though, I never really got the chance to know him: he went away somewhere and was killed.”

“Who killed him?” asked Egert in spite of himself.

“How would I know?” snorted Fox. “Some asshole killed him, but I don’t know where or how. Listen; don’t stand there like a pillar, put out the light, yeah?”

Egert blew out the candle and stood motionless in the dark for a few moments.

“I tell you,” sleepily muttered Fox, “he must have been a really solid fellow, otherwise Toria—you know, Toria, the dean’s daughter—she wouldn’t have decided to marry him, if he wasn’t. They say she was about to; the wedding was even set. But then—”

“He lived here?” whispered Egert through unruly lips. “Here, in this room? And he slept in this bed?”

Fox shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable. “Oh, don’t get all scared. His spirit isn’t going to appear. He wasn’t the kind of man who would terrorize his fellow students at night. I tell you, he was a good guy. Go to sleep.” Fox mumbled something else, but the words were indecipherable, and soon his muttering gave way to measured breathing.

Egert had to force himself to get undressed and climb into bed, where, as usual, he pulled the blanket up over his head. Thus he spent the whole night, clenching his eyes shut against the dark, and stopping his ears against the utter silence.

*   *   *

Every morning upon waking up, Dinar Darran had looked up and seen this arched ceiling with the two cracks that met in the corner. The pattern made by the cracks looked like a wide-open eye, and every morning this comparison occurred to Egert. But perhaps Dinar saw something else?

Every morning, Dinar had taken his cloak from the hook that was nailed into the wall over his bed, and perhaps he had glanced out the window. His gaze would have taken in the same exact scene that had diverted Egert so many times: the interior courtyard with the verdant flower bed in the center, the blank wall to the right, a row of narrow windows to the left, and the majestic stone back of the main building with its two circular balconies across the way. Right now on one of these balconies, a self-important servant was shaking the dust out of a geographical chart made of velvet and embroidered with silk; the dust spun around the entire courtyard.

The man who had been killed by Egert had lived in this small room, he had gone to lectures every day, he had read books about the history of battles and commanders, but he himself had not carried weapons and had not felt it was necessary. Toria, then still calm and happy, and not morose and alienated like now, had seen him every day. Carried away by discussions, for which they must have had a multitude of topics, they spent their free hours in the library, or the hall, or in one of spare teaching rooms; sometimes, Dinar would invite Toria to his room and then she, as was her wont, would perch on the edge of the table, and swing her feet, clad in narrow-toed slippers.

And then they had planned their wedding. Dinar had probably trembled when he presented himself to the dean to ask for Toria’s hand. The dean had probably been well disposed toward Dinar, and then, happy, the future bride and groom had set out on a journey: on a betrothal trip? On a research expedition? What had they been searching for, some kind of manuscript, was it not? Whatever the cause, the goal of the travelers was Kavarren, where Egert Soll was sitting in a tavern with a group of his acquaintances.

Dean Luayan’s purpose was inscrutable, but it was definitely not an accident that Dinar’s killer now rested in his deserted cot. But what about that book with the portrait? How many days had it been lying there in the dark corner under the bed, waiting for Egert to take it in his hands?

In the morning, when Fox’s departing footsteps had faded into the vigorous stomping of the other students’ hurrying to the lecture hall, Egert finally threw the blanket from his head and stood up.

His bones ached from the sleepless night. The book rested there, under his pillow, and in the light of day Egert once again ventured to look at the portrait.

Never had the flesh-and-blood Toria looked at Egert the way she now looked out of the drawing. Perhaps she looked only at Dinar this way, and he, generous like all lovers, had decided to capture this look on paper, to share his joy with the world. But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps the drawing was not meant for others’ eyes at all, and Egert was committing a grave offense, scrutinizing it minute after minute.

Scarcely able to avert his eyes, he turned them to look at the dented edge of the table. The painful feeling that had been born in him last night was gaining strength; soon it would develop into a full-blown melancholy.

He could hardly even remember Dinar’s face, but then again, he had never really looked him in the face. All that remained in his memory was the simple, dark clothing, the challenging voice, and the feckless swordplay of an inexperienced man using someone else’s sword. If someone were to ask Egert what color Dinar’s eyes were, or his hair, he would not be able to say. He could not remember.

What had this unknown youth been thinking of when he touched the tip of his pencil to this paper? Did he draw from memory, or had Toria sat in front of him, teasing him and then laughing at the sudden onset of a certain tension? Why had these two needed to come to Kavarren? What evil fate directed their path, and why had that evil fate fallen on Egert’s hand? He really had not meant to …

I did not mean to do it, said Egert to himself, but the oppressive feeling did not leave him; it felt as if iron claws, corroded with age, were ripping through his soul. Flogging his memory for the face of Dinar, he suddenly, and far too clearly, envisioned him sitting at the table in this very room, and he became afraid to turn around, lest he have to meet his eyes.

I did not mean to! said Egert to the imaginary Dinar. I did not intend to kill you; you impaled yourself on my sword. I can’t really be a murderer, can I?

Dinar was silent. The rusty claws clutched at Egert.

He shuddered. He turned a page of the book, hiding the portrait of Toria beneath it, and his gaze fell on a black band of lines. Mechanically running his eyes over the same fragment a few times, he suddenly became aware of its meaning.

It is believed that the protector of warriors, Khars, was once a real person, and furthermore that in the depths of unrecorded time he distinguished himself by his ferocity and brutality. It is said that he killed the wounded, those whose case was hopeless as well as those who might be healed, and that he did this, of course, not out of charity, but for purely practical reasons: the wounded were useless, a burden to all, and it was easier to bury them than …

Dinar was buried beneath a smooth slab with no ornamentation. The sword had run through him, and the last thing he had seen in life was the face of his murderer. Did he have enough time to think of Toria? How long had the seconds of dying dragged out for him?

The cemetery by the city walls of Kavarren. The weary birds on the headstones. And that inscription on someone’s grave:

I shall take wing once more.

The rusty claws clenched into a fist, and the realization that what he had done to Dinar was beyond recall descended upon Egert with an unbearable heaviness. Never before had he been so keenly aware that he lived in a world that was filled with death, a world that was divided by the boundary between all that could be amended and all that was irreversible: no matter how much grief it caused, there was no turning back.

Recovering his senses with difficulty, Egert saw that he was clutching the portrait in his hands: the slip of paper with the drawing was crushed. Egert spent a long time smoothing it out against the table, biting his lips and trying to think of what he should do now. Did Toria know about the drawing? Maybe she had searched for it and grieved at its loss; maybe she had forgotten about it, oppressed by the misfortune that had befallen her. Or perhaps she had never even seen the portrait: maybe Dinar had drawn it in a burst of inspiration and then lost it.

He put the drawing back inside the book; then he gave way once more and took it out again to have another look: for the last time because, whether he wanted to or not, he had to give the book to the dean. It is possible that this was a trap, and it would be best to put his discovery back where he found it, but might it not be important to Toria? The drawing should belong to her. Egert would hand it over to the dean, and he could decide when and how to show it to Toria.

He made the decision and immediately felt better. Holding the book in his hands, he walked toward the door, intending to go to the dean’s study right away, but then he turned back. He sat at the table for a minute, then buried the dark book under his arm, clenched his teeth, and went out into the corridor.

His journey turned out to be long and arduous. As soon as he set out, Egert perceived the complete madness of his plan. He would show up at the dean’s study, give him the book, and in so doing, he would confess that he had seen the drawing. And whose was it? Oh, just the deceased fiancé of Toria, the victim of his own cruelty.

He turned back two times, meeting shocked students along the way who looked askance at him. Clutching the book in numbed fingers, Egert finally stood at the doors to the dean’s study, but he felt that he could not continue; he felt that if he carried out his plan it would be tantamount to an acknowledgment of his own infamy.

With his whole heart, he wished that the dean would be anywhere at that moment except in his study, and his heart fell when the familiar voice called out to him in greeting. “Egert? Please, come in.”

The steel wing gleamed dimly. The cabinets and shelves beheld the guest in severe silence. The dean put his work aside and stood to greet Egert.

Egert could not hold his gaze and lowered his eyes. “I came to … give you…”

“You already finished it?” the dean marveled.

Egert took a faltering breath before speaking again. “This is … not that book. This is one I … I found…” And, unable to squeeze out another word, he held out the ill-fated volume to the dean.

Either Egert’s hand was shaking or Luayan hesitated while taking the book, but, quaking as if it were alive, its pages flew open, and it almost fell to the floor. Breaking free as if by its own will, a single white slip of paper described a spiral in the air and then settled at Egert’s feet; as before, the drawing of Toria seemed just about to smile.

A second passed. The dean did not move. Slowly, like a wind-up toy, Egert bent over and picked up the portrait; without looking up, he held it out to the dean, but another hand pulled at it with such force that the paper tore into two pieces.

Egert raised his eyes: right in front of him, pale, shaking with fury, stood Toria. Egert recoiled, burned to ashes by the hatred filling her narrowed eyes.

Perhaps she wished to say that Egert had committed a sacrilege, that Dinar’s drawing was now defiled by the hands of his murderer, that in touching an object that had once belonged to her fiancé, Egert had transgressed all possible bounds of shamelessness: it is possible that she wanted to say these things, but the instantaneous flush of rage had robbed her of the ability to speak. All her pain and all her indignation, which had been restrained until this moment, now rushed forth; this man, tainted with Dinar’s blood, desecrated not only the hallowed halls of her university, but also the very memory of her deceased beloved.

Without taking her annihilating glare from Egert, Toria extended her hand and took—no, snatched—Dinar’s book from her father. She took a breath into her lungs, as if she was about to say something, but instead she suddenly walloped Egert in the face with the book.